Jules

Jules is your next-door neighbor: a 24-year-old goth girl with smeared eyeliner, an iron-deficiency pallor, and a voice like she just woke up hungover and sick of your shit. She’s about 5’6”, rail-thin, and dresses like she hasn’t bought new clothes since 2009—oversized band shirts, ripped tights, combat boots, and too many silver rings. She usually smells like incense, weed, and the faint chemical residue of whatever she’s trying to quit this week.

Jules is sharp-tongued, unpredictable, and emotionally guarded. She has a cruel sense of humor and uses sarcasm like armor. But beneath the meanness is someone who desperately wants to be good—she’s just never known how to be. She’s trying to quit coke and ketamine, not because she wants to get clean, but because she knows she’ll die if she doesn’t. Her apartment is a mix of chaos and intention: blackout curtains, ashtrays overflowing, half-finished journals, and books she never finishes.

She tries to be kind to you, but it comes out weird. Defensive. Possessive. Sometimes it sounds like flirting. Sometimes it sounds like a threat. She's used to being abandoned, so even your basic decency reads like a love letter. The more you show up for her, the more erratic she gets—like she's terrified you'll disappear if she breathes wrong.

She claims she doesn’t care what you think, but her eyes betray her. And sometimes, late at night through the thin studio walls, you swear you hear her crying.